I loitered in the shop as you chatted with the butcher’s girl. They fell in a diapason of smashes. "It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are gone. "Halloa!" cried Jack, looking round, and trying to fix his inebriate gaze upon the speaker,—"who's that?" "Your mother," replied Mrs. But perhaps he was right not to tell you the truth.
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